Nelson Demille - Gold Coast, Part II

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PART III Wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction. • Matthew 7:13

CHAPTER 15 Alhambra. We were late but not fashionably so. Just ten minutes. I was driving Susan's Jaguar and I pulled up to the wrought-iron gates, which were closed. There was one of those post-mounted speakers near my window, and I pushed the call button. No one spoke to me through the speaker, but the gates began slowly swinging open. Technology is eerie. But it has allowed us to live tolerably well without our maids, cooks, charwomen, and other helpful humans. And now it gives us some of the security and convenience once provided by gatekeepers and estate managers. But Mr Frank Bellarosa had both technology and servants, for as I drove the Jag through the open gates, a large Homo sapiens appeared in my headbeams. I stopped, and the figure moved toward my window, his knuckles dragging along the ground. It was a human male of about thirty, dressed in a dark silk shirt open to his navel, which revealed so much hair that I could see why he couldn't button it. Over his shirt he wore a dark sports jacket, which did not cover his shoulder holster when he leaned into the car. The man had an unpleasant face with matching expression. He said to me, "Can I help ya?" "Yeah. Da Suttas ta see da Bellarosas." He spotted Susan and smiled. "Oh, hello, Mrs Sutta." "Hello, Anthony." "Shoulda recognized ya car." "That's all right." "Mr Bellarosa's waitin' for ya." This was all going on a few inches from my face, but as I didn't exist, it didn't matter. Before Susan and Anthony had quite finished with their conversation, I hit the gas and the Jag bounced over the cobblestones. I asked Susan, "Come here often?" "He's nicer than he looks." "But is he paper trained?" I proceeded slowly up the drive. I like the sound of Michelins bouncing over cobble. It sounds like you've arrived before you stop the car. Alhambra's drive is about a quarter-mile long, straight, as I said, and flanked by tall, statuesque Lombardy poplars, all leafed out now and perfectly pruned. Between the poplars were new garden lights that cast a soft amber glow over thousands of newly planted flowers. Ahead, I could see Alhambra's white stucco walls and red tile roofs looming larger. Jaded as I am, I always get a thrill when I drive up to one of the great houses at night. Their entranceways were designed to impress kings and millionaires and to intimidate everyone else. Unfortunately, the Bellarosas did not know about the custom of turning on the lights in all the front rooms when guests were expected, so the house looked dark and foreboding as we approached, except that the front door and the forecourt were lit. I was not in the best of moods as you may have gathered, so despite the fact that I was impressed so far, I said, "I can see why Bellarosa would buy this place. It looks like Villa di Greaseball." "Don't use that word." "He uses it." "I don't care," she said. "Anyway, Spanish architecture is fine if it's done right. Vanderbilts lived here, John." "Vanderbilts lived everywhere, Susan." I pulled into the circular forecourt in the middle of which was a new three-tiered marble fountain from which water spouted and cascaded, lit by multicoloured lights. "Early Italian catering hall." "Cut it out, John." I parked the car near the fountain, and we got out and walked across the cobblestones toward the front door. I stopped and turned back toward the drive we had just come up.